


and it's the thousandth time that's it's even bolder

by HeyItsEmmett



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyItsEmmett/pseuds/HeyItsEmmett
Summary: “We could go on a vacation.” She suggests once during the lull of a mission.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	and it's the thousandth time that's it's even bolder

“We could go on a vacation.” She suggests once during the lull of a mission.

It’s on of their— _his_ —earlier ones. Back when she still followed him on them. Back when she didn’t believe he wouldn’t figure out a way to run at the first chance he got.

(And he _had_ tried, several times over. The equations never right. His hands fizzling and shaking and sparking blue.)

“What for?” He replied, half listening. He was more focused on the task at hand, his stomach and chest resting on dew wet grass, his right eye gazing down the scope of a Commission standard sniper rifle, looking for the target. An Italian shepherd. Something about his death preventing the premature end of World War II. He didn’t bother asking why anymore.

(The answer was always same. _A means to an end, dear._ _A step forward for the greater good of humanity._ )

She was still talking when the man appeared from the farmhouse’s front door.

He inhaled. Steadied his form. Breathed in the smoke of her cigarette, held it there for a count of one, two—

From hundreds of meters away, the man slumped dead, his body falling where stood, his death as instantaneous as a bullet to the back of the head could be.

They never move like he expects them to, the bodies. There’s no dramatic falling, stumbling backwards as they take their last breaths, or gasping and staggering, unfeeling hands reaching up to feel the bullet hole. No, they just, _dropped_. Fell where they stood, all awkward, graceless dead weight, dropping forward or backward, sometimes sideways depending on impact, still warm limbs bending in awkward angles.

 _At least,_ that’s how it goes when the bullet meets its mark.

It’s when it doesn’t that things get messy, wasteful. When one shot turns to two, then three, when the victim scrambles, all useless wasted effort and adrenaline when they move to survive, to live.

 _The worst,_ he thinks, are when he must jump. When it becomes a chase and fight.

He watched the man’s lifeless body for half a beat, maybe more.

Through the ringing in his ears, her voice faded into focus.

“—we could visit a vineyard, stay out late. Just you and me, dear, and all the bottles of wine we could find.”

He blinked, drew in a steady breath as he lowered the end of the rifle from his shoulder.

Beside him, the sunlight caught on the rim of her bonnet, glare reflecting off the black of her sunglasses. He could feel her staring at him from behind them. Watching him. Studying him.

“Sure.” He answered, forcibly calm.

Focused on disassembling the rifle.

The dead man’s wife wouldn’t be home for hours.

Beside him, the Handler reached for him.

He didn’t flinch at the feeling of her gloved hand wrapping around his, or at the twist and snap of an opening briefcase, and the blue light that followed.


End file.
